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I wish I could explain to you just how grand and epic the Dolomites are. I wish I could convey the array of emotions I felt moving through their many and varied peaks. I wish I could show them to you and stand beside you as you see what I saw. I will attempt to describe all this but a warning right from the first, I know I will fall short.
Nevertheless, let’s begin.
The Dolomites are a mountain range in northeastern Italy. They extend from the River Adige in the west to the Piave Valley in the east, and have been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site. They are also the final stop for the writing retreat/holiday I went on in the middle of 2024.
The bus trip there was already delivering some views. It only took forty minutes but it passed through some gorgeous small towns which became more mountainous as we went and so I couldn’t help but play the fools game of trying to take photos from a moving vehicle. I took maybe a dozen. I kept one. That is forever the way it works on a holiday. Take as many photos as you like and you’ll still never be able to capture even a fraction of the experience. Not even a bus ride. But that’s okay because I think the real role photos play is later, once we’re back home, when they become a key that unlocks the memory of the experience in your mind. Right now, I am looking at that one photo I kept and while it wouldn’t be especially astounding or atmospheric to you, for me it takes me right back to that bus ride. It makes me remember leaning over my bag to take it. Looking up, my arms growing slightly sore from holding out my phone and waiting as the bus jostled beneath me for a single moment of stillness and timing. It makes me remember feeling the bittersweet ending of a reunion mixed with the anticipation of heading to a new location. It makes me once more feel that slightly dreamy headspace you get when looking out the window of a bus and watching the towns and trees and people pass by, with me in that instance the true tourist, moving past it in an instant, seeing it all but never able to know it.
Forty minutes, from Bolzano to Ortisei, and then we exited the bus and entered the Dolomites.
We exited onto the side of a hill, unsurprising for mountain country. The hill stretched up toward our next accommodation but we had to stop for a moment because the scenery around us was already stunning. I’m going to ask you to google Ortisei and see it for yourself, because even for incredible mountain towns, Ortisei is something else. Behind us, the road rolled down toward the town, revealing the valley peppered with trees and peaked roofs, mountain sides reached up around it. We turned and headed up, packs heavy on our backs as we made our way along the road.
This road is the main one that leads from our accommodation to the town centre. When we arrived at the accommodation they told us of the bus line that could take us into town, which seemed a bit silly since it was only a fifteen minute walk but, while we never got the bus, it soon became obvious why others would as the road’s incline was no joke. But more on that later.
First, our hotel. We were staying in a chalet called the Hotel Hartmann, an adults only establishment that was both luxurious and cosy and whose rooms offered views of the valley and the peaks. Our room was comfortable and had a view of the mountains with a waterfall present in the middle but it was the rest of the hotel that was truly impressive as they had done an exceptional job at creating an ambience. Wood panelled walls, plush chairs, a nature-centric decor and colour scheme, the soft crackle of a fire, and, of course, not a child in sight. It should be noted here that the adults-only ruling of this hotel wasn’t our reason for booking it, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t also a nice little benefit. With so many comfortable places to sit and look out the many large windows, this place was a writer’s dream, however being only a short walk to a number of chairlifts that would take us up to some of the most spectacular scenery we had ever seen, it was also a hiker’s paradise. These two impulses warred within me but seeing as how I can write anywhere and that these mountains only exist here, it wasn’t a very drawn out battle.
We checked in, dropped off our luggage, and headed back down the road and into town.
We literally had our pick of mountains to go up, with three accessible from the centre of town, and all surprisingly different in their landscapes. We ultimately just had to choose one and so for that first day we went with Seceda. By this point, we were bubbly. The town, the hotel, the mountains, it was also so beautiful and exciting. It felt like we had stepped through a postcard and into the ideal version of what we liked best.
Once more, I boarded a chairlift and once more it took me up, the town falling away, the mountain growing closer, another spectacular view spreading out beneath me. I’m happy to say this never failed to impress. As previously stated, I am a mountain pervert and so the site of rising up beside one will always titillate. But it was nothing compared to what awaited us at the top.
Here is where I fall short. I could tell you that from the edge of the mountain top, we looked out onto the valley we had just come from, now able to see it all with a birds eye view that was visually jaw dropping and which also gave you that wonderful perspective that the world is a giant place and we all small things scurrying around on top of it. I could tell you that when we turned to our left, we next saw layers of mountains, the front most grassy, the middle tree covered, and the furthest ones rocky, craggy, and white. I could tell you that from there we turned and looked at the mountain top proper, the view we would spend the rest of our day walking around and photographing, and that it had a steep face which was grass and lake covered, crisscrossed with paths and mountain huts waiting to serve us beer and food, around which were rocky peaks so sharp and severe and captivating that they were world famous. I could tell you all that but it would still fall short, better that I show you some photos, which you can see at damianrobb.com/straythoughts, but better still that you see it for yourself. Only then will you get the full experience.
So to save you from me writing ‘the mountain top was beautiful’ in a dozen different ways, I’ll just tell you what we did, but please know as we progress that the mountain top was indeed beautiful.
We decided to start at the highest point. We consulted a map and saw that the main lookout, famous on instagram, was up and to our right. We headed toward it and were immediately met with a path which if it wasn’t a forty five degree angle, certainly felt like it. It is amazing how quickly you can get out of breath when walking against gravity, which of course was only made worse by the high altitude. We huffed and puffed our way to the top where a crowd of people waited. We took some photos but were ultimately encumbered by that crowd of people, which were even more clustered on a little outcrop where all the instagrammers were lining up. We instead chose to follow the path along the side of the mountain top which ultimately gave the same views, and which, to my mind, were just as gorgeous and photographic, albeit from a slightly different angle.
As we followed the path, I took a truckload of photos. Having been lucky enough to have a number of mountain days now I recognise that there is a pattern to them when taking photos. First there is the awe-inspiring dumbstruck first look where I momentarily become overwhelmed, not knowing what to photograph first. Then, there is a frenzy of photos. An avalanche of them as I try to take all the photos a person can take, aiming to catch every shade and angle of the insane terrain around me. Then, that desire slated, there is a slowing and a seeing, where I begin to truly look, aiming to find not just the point and click photos of the scenery, which is still crazy beautiful, but for a composition which uses that and adds a little more. On that path, the whole process took place.
We followed it around the rim of the mountain top, moving toward a series of sharp craggily peaks, which stuck up out of the earth like shark fins. Above us flew a large black bird, gliding in every direction on the rising thermals, below us the mountain face rolled downwards. From our vantage point, and with a lack of trees, it felt like looking down at a map, with us able to see every trail and hut. So, we chose one and headed toward it.
The hut was bustling with people, making it hard to find a seat at a table. We managed to get one outside on the large wooden deck that was also in the process of being even larger, and ordered some beers. The wind blew as we listened to the conversation around us, much of it in languages we didn’t understand. Our beers arrived and we drank deep, the novelty of getting good service and good beer on top of a mountain still not lost on us. A group of young lads with what I think were eastern european accents asked if they could join our table, and soon ordered their own round of food and drinks. We polished off our own in this strange but pleasant temporary community, and then continued on, this time heading for a small lake we could see further down the mountain’s face.
As previously stated, Seceda’s face is cut at a sharp angle, which meant as we walked there was very little flat, and instead we were always moving up or down. At this stage, apart from our initial incline, it had mostly been down. That was about to change.
After tipsily sloshing around the outside of the small lake, we headed across the mountain face, making our slow winding way back to where we started. First, we took the wrong path, one we quickly realised was going to add a few extra hours to our day, and so backtracked and went cross country for a beat until we were back where we were supposed to be.
Then it was time to head up. The incline was slow at first, only gradual, as though letting us become accustomed to it, then it went balls-to-the-wall. Up with more up waiting for us. We did it in chunks, tiny legs from one self determined point to the next. Each time, I would bustle ahead as I prefer to get a fast paced rhythm going where I’m breathing deep and sweating freely, whereas Holly prefers the slow and steady approach, plodding consistently, the tortoise to my hare. My way necessitated breaks to regain my breath and wipe the sweat from my brow and each time I would stop and wait for my wife to catch up, and each time I would turn and once more look at the stupidly beautiful scenery, panting, lungs and legs sore, dumbstruck at what I was seeing.
We continued this until we made it back to the chairlift then headed down into town. We were the definition of pooped at this point. Legs like jelly after that last hour and a bit of incline, and so decided we would get takeaway for dinner back at our hotel. Problem was, first we had to get back to our hotel. Remember earlier when I told you that the road from the centre of town up to our hotel was no joke? Well here is when we definitely weren’t laughing. We forced our already wobbly legs up one more incline, both so slow that to anyone watching it probably didn’t seem like we were moving at all, like one of those time lapses of plants where it isn’t until it’s sped up that you can even see its motion.
As for the takeaway, we went on the local version of menulog and saw that there was exactly one restaurant in the area on there that would deliver, which if nothing else made the decision easy. We ordered some kebabs and waited hungrily for our food to arrive. It was glorious.
The next day, our legs somewhat recovered, we did it all again. This time we were heading up to Alpe di Siusi, also known as the alpine meadows. Of all the insanely beautiful walks I went on on this trip, this one found a new level. The top level. Heaven on earth. Even now, I am looking at the photos and still can’t believe that it was and is real. It looks like something that should only exist as fiction, its perfect mind boggling beauty so idyllic and picturesque that it nearly had me in fits of laughter. I felt manic, hopped up, like I wanted to race across its wide rolling just-as-green-as-you-could-wish-for fields towards the sharp and startling mountains that ripped themselves up and out of the horizon.
Let’s talk about those peaks for a moment, because they are unique. Harsh and grey and pointed, for which there is a very good reason. The Dolomites are also known as the “Pale Mountains”, and take their name from the carbonate rock dolomite, which gives them a washed out white and grey look, which is all the more stark against the green vibrant fields that run below.
I once more implore you to take out your phone and google a photo, because only then will you be able to see and understand this incredible contrast, and perhaps feel what I felt.
Awe. Plain and simple.
Walking around those meadows will remain as one of my favourite memories. Despite my initial mania it is an incredibly calming place, and our day spent meandering around then was rejuvenative. On a bad day, I can stop and picture them and be back there once more, once more feeling the weightless sense of freedom such scenery inspires.
That afternoon we returned to our accommodation, once more taking tired legs up that taxing incline, but this time we took a detour, because we had some treasure to find.
Cut to, almost a year earlier when my parents were in the same town doing the same activities and we, knowing we would be there months later, almost jokingly told them to leave us something to find. They obliged, and on their return excitedly told us that at that moment something was hidden somewhere in the town, waiting for us. This something would have to weather the frozen winter and then it’s unthawing. It would have to be easy enough for us to find while also not being found by any passers by. It would have to patiently wait for our arrival and us to find it.
A day earlier, I had messaged my parents to request a clue for how to find this something, its method of delivery something my dad had been stewing over for months. He sent through a poem, it read:
We’ve made it easy-peazy
To find your souvenir of Ortisei
At the base of a secret chalet
Where the children are not permitted to play
There lies a path where trains once ran
And steps that lead up to the Hartmann
Slither your hands under the ‘crete
And a little wrapped package you will greet
Be sure to find
as it is both yours and mine
And will be a great memory
Of our shared experience of Ortisei
So, we walked up a path where trains once ran and which connected to the back of our accommodation, also known as The Hartmann Chalet, also also known as an adults only establishment where kids can not play. We searched around and found … nothing. We checked under storm grates, sure if anything had been hidden in them it would have been swept away long since, and sure enough came up with bupkis. So we video called my parents, telling them we were stumped, and after Dad explained that crete was short for concrete, we were on the money.
And so then with me and my parents watching, from half a world away, Holly reached under a loose slab of concrete. She felt around, and her fingers found a plastic bag, one that had gone untouched since my parents had placed it there many months earlier. She pulled it out and inside was a rock. This was already exciting enough just through the implausibility of finding an untouched treasure left by our family in the heart of the dolomites, but when Holly freed the rock from the bag something interesting happened. It split open. Now she was holding two perfect halves, on the inside of one was written Dam and Holly, Ortisei, June ‘24, and on the other, Sue and Pete, Ortisei, Sept, 23. A quality souvenir, indeed. We thanked my parents and confirmed that once we were back home again, we would return their half of the rock.
We had one last day in Ortisei, which was full of grey skies, and so we went on one last walk, keeping it to lower ground this time, and then spent the rest of the day mostly reading and writing back in the luxury of our child free accommodation.
The next day we would venture further into the mountain range and to our very last stop.
But I’ll tell you about that next time.
Until then why not make a plan to bury some treasure for your friends, because even if it’s just a rock it’ll still feel like something wondrous.